


we can meet again somewhere

by itsgood



Series: in every universe [1]
Category: X1 (Korea Band)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Character Study, Light Angst, M/M, Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:02:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21850399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsgood/pseuds/itsgood
Summary: Kim Wooseok is hard to get to know. Difficult to unwrap. Similar to a Christmas gift with many, many layers that appear to be infinite, and at points you feel like giving up. Yet, Seungyoun never did. He uncovered every coat there was to Wooseok, and fell for the deepest and kindest part of him.And the overall package, too.
Relationships: Cho Seungyeon | Seungyoun/Kim Wooseok | Wooshin
Series: in every universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1574164
Kudos: 39





	we can meet again somewhere

**Author's Note:**

> so this is the start of me writing seungseok, this one is a more poetic angsty one that i wanted to put out as a start, but i plan on writing different universes! happier and longer ones that will be in this "in every universe" series!!
> 
> if you're reading this, thank you

There's something building up slowly. A thing. A sensation.

Steadily, with such silence Seungyoun doesn't notice. 

Although the _thing_ is heavy, on his chest and shoulders, he unworriedly dismisses it as a mundane sickness. A cold, perhaps. A seasonal virus that takes a hold of his thin skin and empty bones. So Seungyoun’s heart gradually beats more feebly. 

It's no one’s fault. 

His camera lays on the surface of their bedside table. ( _His_ bedside table, Seungyoun has to remind himself. It's hard). Staring at it, as simple as it might be, is enough to feed that bothersome sensation. That heavy _thing_. Seungyoun slumps his shoulders and it doesn't leave. It never does. 

The pictures that should be all over the place, scattered around on the couch, the counter, the bed, are all now safely stored inside a dotted pink box—set aside in the farthest back of their wardrobe. 

His, _his_ wardrobe. 

Seungyoun sighs. And his precious camera looks back at him pitifully.

It's been his passion, ever since he was a teenager. Starting with small compact cameras that couldn't satisfactorily capture what Seungyoun’s eyes were seeing, and then trying out digital single lens reflex cameras, overwhelmingly big and confusing. That turned him, momentarily, into the designed photographer of his friend group, ruling out almost every possibility of adding his own creative input. But shortly after, analog and instant polaroid cameras were introduced to his life. 

By the one and only Kim Wooseok.

If Seungyoun had to define him, well, he wouldn't be able to. A definition is a description with a limited set of words, a finite characterization. And Wooseok was, _is_ , much more than that. 

At that time, he had been an enemy, then a friend. Wooseok was a fierce and intimidating student that Seungyoun only knew by name and was _glad_ they hadn't crossed paths. Still new to university, provoking any kind of dispute wasn't in his plans. 

“Kim Wooseok,” the aforementioned greeted, stretching his hand out. Polite, _sumptuous_ , and mainly, unbothered.

Seungyoun shook his hand, a bit damp from sweat, and then smiled at him softly. All he received back was a faint nod. So regarding first impressions—Seungyoun wasn't pleased at all. 

Because Kim Wooseok is hard to get to know. Difficult to unwrap. Similar to a Christmas gift with many, many layers that appear to be infinite, and at points you feel like giving up. Yet, Seungyoun never did. He uncovered every coat there was to Wooseok, and fell for the deepest and kindest part of him.

And the overall package, too.

“I like this song,” Wooseok said, nearly innocently. He had been lying on Seungyoun’s tumbledown couch, and instead of disgust, there was a blissful expression on his face. 

“It's mine.”

Wooseok’s eyes went wide. Like two plates, no, like galaxies. With depth, stars. 

“You _produced_ it?” He inquired, “and—did the vocals too?”

“Yep!” Some type of pride took over Seungyoun, so he confidently threw himself beside Wooseok, grinning. In response, Wooseok leaned back. 

That was one of the first layers, Seungyoun guesses. 

He walks over to the wardrobe and pulls that infamous box out. There's no dust, no signs of abandonment. Seungyoun knows exactly _why_. 

Opening it is nothing like a Christmas present, nothing like peeling back those layers. It's a testimony, of colors, of wintry breezes, of provocative touches and dancing waves. A capsule of memories that weighs more than the current heaviness on Seungyoun's chest. 

Like a punch right in the stomach, piercing, Seungyoun takes a hold of the first picture and recalls the moment so vividly his eyes fill with worthless crystals. As worthless as looking back. 

It's an undeniably smiling Wooseok in a futile attempt to cover his face with his hand, sitting on Seungyoun's old special desk chair. Some of the colors appear faded, but it's all about the aesthetics, or so Wooseok would say.

“This doesn't look good at all,” Seungyoun had complained, pouting. “It's all blurry. What's the point?”

“To make it look old.”

Seungyoun narrowed his eyes at him. 

“ _What_?” 

“You wouldn't understand, it's _art_ ,” Wooseok mockingly said. But his cheeks were pink, and his lips would jut out unconsciously, driving Seungyoun insane. 

“I think _you_ are the art.” 

It had been a risk he needed to take. And watching Kim Wooseok splutter was, (is, will always be) worth it. 

“Shut up,” he grumbled, “you’re so full of shit.”

“Well, you're the one trying to turn me into one of those pretentious artists!” Seungyoun countered. It was pointless, because Kim Wooseok is—undefinable.

“You already are.”

And maybe Seungyoun still is, perhaps he's so pretentious that, to this day, he still utilizes all those analog cameras he used to complain about. And the thought of Kim Wooseok nagging him about cute polaroids and blurry, discolored photos is what inspires him. 

Keeping those inside a box is telling enough.

Their first proper and official date, Seungyoun recalls, happened at a cat café. Despite Wooseok’s allergies and Seungyoun's persistent worries, they had coffee accompanied by a bunch of fluffy felines. And—Seungyoun thinks that's the moment he fell in love.

As he stares at the picture, Wooseok grinning although his nose was wine-red, and their fingers barely touching on top of the table. 

“You need to take me on another date if you want to hold my hand,” he had said, cutely sniffling. Seungyoun would've kissed him right there. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then.”

Seungyoun rummages through the array of photographies and some souvenirs even, not specifically in search of something. He takes his time, eyeing each one, and allowing those heavy memories to sink down. 

But it doesn't do him any better.

The last one he takes a hold on is recent. 

At a campsite, surrounded by trees, arms open embracing the entrancing background. Seungyoun’s chest fills with pure and wistful nostalgia. Wooseok looks happy, eyes crinkling as he smiles, and the bags and backpacks on the ground are a telltale sign of their programme there. 

_Their_ , that was their. 

“I love you.”

So Seungyoun had said it first. It makes him wonder, now, if it had been a mistake. 

“I love you, too,” Wooseok replied. Under thousand of stars, he sparkled like one and Seungyoun sighed, audibly, in relief. “But… you know what I think?”

A cool yet gentle wind ruffled some fallen leaves. Wooseok focused on them, dancing with the breeze. And Seungyoun couldn't focus on anything but Wooseok’s profile glowing. (Not because of the moonlight, or the stars, a lamp or a fire. He shines by himself, and that's something Seungyoun learned a bit too late).

“I think I could love you in every universe,” he said, gazing at the sky, “in every version of reality where I meet you, I think I will love you.”

Kissing him was all Seungyoun found himself capable of doing. Holding onto his jaw and pressing their lips together, with every single feeling he'd been accumulating, every word and thought. Seungyoun hoped a kiss was enough to pour his entire heart out, to give himself fully to Wooseok.

And now, staring at a plain and flimsy piece of paper, he wonders if it was ever enough.

If he was ever enough.

Seungyoun places the pictures carefully inside of the box again, in the same order for the sake of the memories—until something caughts his attention.

In blank ink, at the back of the photo at the campsite, it reads: “ _We can meet again somewhere. Somewhere far away from here_.”

Seungyoun smiles. The sensation on his chest melts away. It leaves. 


End file.
